


Blacked, Blued & Gilded

by quills_at_dawn



Series: Witcher Shorts [9]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Other, Uniform Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-06
Updated: 2020-05-06
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:00:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24039277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quills_at_dawn/pseuds/quills_at_dawn
Summary: Roche hangs around a Nilfgaardian camp and has thoughts about the Impera’s armour.
Series: Witcher Shorts [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1436413
Comments: 15
Kudos: 49





	Blacked, Blued & Gilded

**Author's Note:**

> This is silly.

“Apologies, commander, the emperor has been detained by the arrival of an important missive. We must beg your forbearance.”

Leaning against a tent pole, the already waiting Vernon Roche nodded in acknowledgment then watched the aide walk away, wondering how Nilfgaardians managed to simultaneously give the impression that they had no sense of humour and that the joke was at his expense.

“Commander” was a courtesy title - politeness or a reminder of what he’d lost and what he no longer was. 

Yes, it could have been a barb, just as the lengthening wait could be a Nilfgaardian mind game. Roche had heard enough about the emperor to suspect it.

And after all, Roche was the one doing the begging, though Melitele knew even he wasn't clear how it had come to this — an alliance with Nilfgaard to preserve what he could of Temeria's independence. 

Foltest would have taken pride in Roche’s obscene composure in the face of what could be seen as Nilfgaardian provocation, but the truth was that Roche was saddle-weary and bored and too drowned in disappointments and futile efforts to muster up a reaction. 

Hard to believe the emperor was even here, Roche mused as he looked the camp over lazily. It didn't look like it was hosting an emperor, it looked ordinary, unusually large and organised but still fairly ordinary. Henselt's tent and those of his mages had stuck out like sore thumbs in his camps and even Foltest had liked to stand out on the battlefield. 

But then Nilfgaardians always took everything too far, one had only to look at their armour to see the truth of this, Roche thought derisively, his roving gaze coming to rest on a knot of officers deep in conversation nearby.

Most of these were of the Impera division, the emperor’s own personal guard, and as such one might expect them to be better outfitted than your ordinary infantryman. But even so, full plate armour blacked, blued _and_ gilded! And that was without counting the ridiculous helmets!

When one saw them individually it was hard not to imagine the staggering expense in time and coin of making them, Roche thought as his attention focused on the officer at the centre of the group, but en masse they melded into a kind of ruinous austerity, a subtly menacing reminder of the empire’s might in wealth and numbers. Melitele knew what kind of armour the emperor himself wore - if he ever wore armour. Probably something shiny and gilded all over as would befit the Great Sun. 

The elaborate helmets, in particular, were glaringly superfluous and could only have aesthetic merit. 

They _were_ beautifully crafted, Roche freely admitted to himself as he studied the faithfully reproduced raptor wings, and effective. Your standard-issue Nilfgaardian, out of his helmet and armour, looked as ordinary as any Northerner - rather more harmless, if anything, since even their generals managed to have the air of middle class administrators. 

He caught a glimpse of a sharp gaze in the arrowslit embrasure between helmet-rim and bevoir. 

Yes, very effective. Concealed, anonymous and unreadable within their armour, Nilfgaardians became unknowable and predatory. 

The various elements were designed as much to fit technical requirements as visual ones. They were intended not just to protect but to impress. To intimidate. 

The shape of the bombastic cuirasses, artificially made broader by the generous curves and enormous articulated pauldrons, and that gilded line along the rib cage, like an arrow pointing upward and that made them all look like they were sucking in their stomachs. Roche judged that not one of the Impera was under six feet tall and they all looked like giants. 

Giants that cast a winged shadow, that had few weak spots, that one as supposed to look at in fear, to look at the massive gauntlets and feel a shiver of sweat at the thought of being in their steely grip. 

The officer's gaze occasionally met Roche's but the Temerian simply didn't have it in him to care if the Nilfgaardians thought him insolent. Hell, his own king had thought him insolent at times and it hadn't mattered even then. On the contrary, Roche suspected Foltest had enjoyed it.

Besides, if the imperials didn't want to attract attention then they probably shouldn't put great big gilded Suns, as blinding as the real thing when they caught a ray of light, right in the centre of their breastplates.

Not quite the centre, Roche noticed on closer inspection, but slightly higher, where the plate was more convex and would disperse the force of a blow and drawing attention away from the more vulnerable stomach, trim and lean and marked high by short flared lips that could only laughingly be called faulds.

All those curves in the metal could lend heft even to the wispiest waif as long as they had the strength to carry it, Roche reflecting, running his gaze over the officer in his full armour, imagining the weight of it on him. 

Roche himself rarely bothered with anything more than a hauberk — just a question of personal preference and not because he couldn’t have had any quality of plate he wanted, since Foltest had rather taken pleasure in allowing his stray dog things above his station and more than serviceable plate had been standard issue for the Blue Stripes. The most essential pieces, lightweight, as suited rangers - their famous masks, couters to protect their elbows, greaves. 

The Impera too covered their most vulnerable parts — rondels gave extra protection to the articulation in the hollow of the shoulder, gilded gorgets lay over collar bones. They too wore greaves, serviceable ones too, but over cuissardes that reached to more than mid-thigh and the like of which Roche had only seen on sorceresses. And above them, that chequered band of white and black. There could be no point to those gratuitous garters beyond emphasising the girth of the already muscular thighs and to frame the neat rumps. 

The officer he was studying met his gaze and this time held it, perhaps finally irritated beyond complacency. 

He strutted over with obscene composure, as though he weren’t dressed like the martial equivalent of a village harlot. 

“Apologies again for the delay,” the officer said in clipped, perfunctory tones slightly distorted by the bevoir, “I am Emhyr var Emreis.” 

“The spice merchant?” Roche bit back a derisive snort, certain he was once again on the butt end of a weak joke. 

“No, the emperor,” the officer corrected, removing his helmet to reveal a face Roche recognised from portraits and cold citrine eyes that slowly raked over Roche from head to toe then back again, “You must tell me about this spice merchant.” 


End file.
